DAY 
DREAMS 


GREECE 

CHARLES 

WHARTON 

STORK 


DAY  DREAMS   OF  GREECE 


The  thanks  of  the  Author  are  due  to  the  Board  o 
Graduate  Trustees  of  Han>ard  University  for  permission 
to  reprint  "  THE  SCULPTOR  OF  MELOS,"  printed  in  the 
Thir.l  Volume  of  "  Verses  from  the  Harvard  Advocate." 


DAY  DREAMS 
OF  GREECE 


BY 

CHARLES  WHARTON   STORK 


PHILADELPHIA 
J.   B.  LIPPINCOTT   COMPANY 

LONDON 

ELKIN   MATHEWS,   VIGO   STREET 
M  CM  VIII 


"  Das  Land  der  Griechen  mit  der  Seele  suchend.' 

Goethe 


TO 

MY    FATHER 
TO     WHOM,     PRIMARILY 

I     OWE 

AN     EARLY    AND    ABIDING    LOVE 
OF    THE    CLASSICS 


fVlAIA/ 


CONTENTS 

I.    To  ZEUS 9 

II.    THE  SCULPTOR  OF  MELOS.       .               .  n 

III.  GANYMEDE 15 

IV.  THE  WANDERINGS  OF  PSYCHE  .               .  21 
V.    PHILOMEN  AND  BAUCIS      .       .  49 


To  Zeus 

Written  in  the  Vale  of  Tempe 

Ah  no,  thou  art  not  dead.     The  dimming  years 
Have  cast  no  shadow  on  thy  tranquil  brow, 
Although  perchance  our  eyes  are  blinded  now 

By  swirling  dust  of  sophist  doubts  and  fears. 

Yet  here  to  me  thy  form  serene  appears 
Majestic  as  of  old,  when  on  the  prow 
Of  chafing  Argo  Jason  made  his  vow 

To  thee  amid  the  Greeks'  resounding  cheers. 

There  stands  thy  dais  with  its  mantle  white, 

These  plane  trees  are  thy  flowing  garment's  hem, 

And  thou  art  here.     The  creature  of  a  day 
Looks  and  believes.     Time's  veil  before  his  sight 
Sweeps  back ;  he  sees  thy  robe,  thy  diadem, 
And  feels  that  thou  hast  never  passed  away. 

9 


The    Sculptor   of  Melos 

Finished  at  last  for  all  the  world  to  see, 

My  statue  stands.     A  statue  did  I  say  ? 

Nay,  rather  a  goddess  fair  as  Venus'  self, 

When  from  her  seashell  in  Cythera's  foam 

She  stepped  in  virgin  freshness.     O  ye  gods, 

Receive  a  sister  in  your  high  domain 

To  share  your  royal  banquet.      What  long  years 

I've  toiled  to  coax  from  out  this  stubborn  block 

Its  mystery  of  beauty.     Night  on  night 

I  spent  in  sleepless  visions,  day  by  day 

I  plied  my  chisel,  guided  by  the  hand 

Of  great  Apollo,  god  of  all  the  arts. 

Now  it  is  done ;  then  what  remains  to  do  ? 

Behold  her !     Is  she  not  perfection's  self  ? 
Her  forehead  smooth  with  hair  in  ample  folds 
ii 


THE   SCULPTOR   OF   MELOS 

Drawn  back  above  the  temples,  her  pure  brow 
And  profile  cleanly  cut  in  classic  line ; 
Then  see  the  supple  neck  how  softly  curved, 
Those  breasts  where  Mars  might  lay  his  warlike  head, 
That  yielding  waist,  those  round  limbs  moulded 

through 

Their  clinging  robes — Ah,  Zeus,  but  she  is  fair ! 
Withal  so  noble.     Would  you  care  to  know 
How  first  I  saw  her  ?     There  was  once  a  maid, 
Her  name  lone,  and  her  beauty  more 
Than  mortal  dared  to  dream  of.     She  it  was, 
Who  kindled  in  my  eager  brain  the  thought 
That  I  should  form  this  Venus.     She  it  was, 
In  the  first  glow  of  girlish  innocence, 
Who  stood  as  model  for  me.     I  had  loved  her, 
But  that  my  dreams  were  more  to  me  than  life ; 
And  loving  more  my  art,  I  told  her  not, 
Lest,  grown  self-conscious,  all  her  virgin  charm 
Should  vanish  in  a  blush  ;  and  when  I  feared 
That  love  might  touch  her  heart  too  soon,  I  spoke 
Of  our  great  purpose  till  her  languid  eyes 
Would  light  to  think  that  she  should  be  immortal, 
And  she  would  never  sigh  for  earthly  love. 


12 


THE   SCULPTOR   OF   MELOS 

So  we  lived  on  till  yesterday,  for  then 

I  struck  the  last  stroke,  and  the  statue  stood 

Even  as  you  see  it  now.     But  when  I  turned 

To  fold  the  girl  in  my  victorious  arms, 

My  heart  misgave  me.     For  she  was  so  pure 

With  newly  ripened  beauty,  that  it  seemed 

As  if  she  too  deserved  to  win  the  gift 

Of  everlasting  youth,  just  as  the  statue. 

That  moment's  loveliness  could  never  last 

Above  a  month  or  two,  and  then  would  come 

The  withering  summer  days  of  dust  and  heat, 

Marring  those  perfect  lines.      How  could  I  keep 

her 

Forever  young  and  fair  ?     At  last  I  spoke. 
"  lone,  now  you  stoop  a  thought  too  far. 
See  !  I  must  set  you  right/'     And  where  her  heart 
Was  beating  proud  and  guileless,  there  I  drove 
My  dagger — and  she  sank  into  my  arms. 
Ah !  then  I  kissed  her  wildly,  pressed  her  close 
My  own  lone,  mine  forevermore ! 
And  both  forever  deathless,  for  above 
The  statue  gazed  upon  us,  and  I  knew 
Thai  Venus  could  not  perish,  and  our  souls 

13 


THE   SCULPTOR   OF   MELOS 

Were  both  transfused  throughout  the  marble  there. 

And  for  myself — this  life,  what  matters  it  ? 

It  may  be  I  shall  hie  me  to  the  wars, 

Or  take  the  lover's  leap.     Why  should  I  care  ? 

When  death  begins  my  immortality. 


Ganymede 

I  wonder  why  it  seems  so  long  ago 

Since  I  was  with  my  sheep  on  Ida's  slope 

That  fateful  day.     Where  was  I  when  I  saw 

The  eagle  ?     I  remember  clearer  now. 

Twas  on  a  languid  summer  afternoon, 

I  lay  beneath  a  cedar  by  a  stream, 

And  watched  the  westering  sunlight  glinting  through 

The  misty  foliage.     My  sheep  grazed  near, 

And  I  was  leaning  back  with  eyes  half-closed 

When,  like  a  gold-rimmed  mote  against  the  blue, 

I  saw  the  bird  of  Jove.     Idly  at  first 

I  followed  as  he  fell,  and  grew,  and  spread, 

Winging  his  lonely  and  portentous  way 

With  mighty  sweep  and  long,  majestic  poise, 

Till  straight  above  my  flock  he  stayed  his  flight. 


GANYMEDE 

Like  some  dark  pirate  from  the  Lesbian  shore, 
Marring  the  Hellespont  with  sable  sail 
And  menacing  a  white-walled  fishing  town, 
Defenceless ;  so  above  his  helpless  prey 
The  eagle  hung,  then  sudden,  sheer  as  fate, 
Dropped.     But  by  this  I  started  to  my  feet 
And  ran  all  weaponless  to  save  my  lambs. 
The  bird  had  pounced  on  one,  my  youngest ;  I, 
Desperate,  thoughtless,  leaped  upon  his  back. 
When,  strange  to  tell,  I  felt  his  body  grow 
Beneath  me,  and  he  rose  into  the  air. 
I  dug  my  fingers  deep  into  the  down 
And  clung  as  to  a  crumbling  cliff,  while  up 
And  ever  up  we  mounted.     First,  my  eyes 
Were  blind  with  flapping  wings  ;  but  as  we  rose, 
The  beats  came  seldomer,  for  one  strong  waft 
Sufficed  to  send  us  far  upon  our  way. 
Then  I  looked  down.     Already  my  poor  sheep, 
Scattered  in  terror  at  their  master's  fate, 
Were  specks  diminishing  against  the  green. 
A  slow,  relentless  sweep  of  buoyant  wings, — 
And  when  I  looked  again  I  saw  proud  Troy, 
Her  thread-fine  streets  most  like  a  spider's  web 
16 


GANYMEDE 

Which  centred  in  the  thronging  market-place. 
Beyond  to  westward  swam  the  purple  sea, 
Dotted  with  silver  sails  and  rocky  isles. 
On  o'er  the  strait  we  held  our  steady  course 
Toward  barren  Thrace  and  rugged  Macedon 
Where,  I  had  heard  men  say,  Olympus  raised 
His  hoary  citadel,  the  home  of  Jove. 
But  now  the  coast  was  curtained  by  a  mass 
Of  storm-piled  cloud  that  swung  above  the  sea ; 
While  lashing  gusts,  like  bending  charioteers, 
Urged  on  ten  thousand  tossmg-crested  steeds 
Shaking  the  salt  foam  from  their  bitted  lips. 
Sudden  the  wind  blew  dinning  round  my  ears 
And  flung  my  hair  across  my  fear-moist  brow. 
Deep  plumage  warmed  my  breast,  but  round  my 

back 

The  cold  air  eddied  like  a  snow-chilled  spring. 
The  glaring  light  grew  faint.     Great  ragged  shapes 
Had  flaunted  o'er  the  sky  and  dimmed  the  sun, 
While  from  their  depths  the  distant  thunder  spoke. 
Came  a  wild  rush  of  tempest-loosened  air, 
And  now  the  plashy  rain-drops  stung  my  back 

Harder  and  faster  in  a  sluicing  stream. 
• 

17 


GANYMEDE 

Then  lightning  quivered  like  a  brandished  spear 

Full  at  my  shrinking  eyes.     I  held  my  breath 

Till  with  a  crash  the  thunder  smote  my  ears 

And  rolled  away  in  distant  resonance. 

But  on  as  through  the  jaws  of  Tartarus 

The  eagle  bore  me  through  the  storm,  now  black, 

Now  blazing.     Then  I  closed  my  eyes  and  prayed 

To  Pan,  the  shepherd's  go.l,  to  bring  me  back 

To  Ida's  slope  to  shield  my  helpless  lambs 

Unshepherded  beneath  the  savage  gale. 

So  as  I  prayed,  meseemed  I  lay  once  more 

On  Ida's  smiling  slope  amid  the  thyme 

And  bright  anemones,  purple  and  scarlet, 

With  all  around  my  frisking  lambs  at  play, — 

When  a  harsh  roar  as  of  a  splitting  crag 

Awoke  me,  and  I  sank  down  limp  with  fright 

To  know  I  still  was  on  the  eagle's  back 

In  the  storm's  heart,  but  nigh  had  slipped  my  hold 

While    vainly    dreaming.      Yet,    great    Pan    be 

thanked ! 

That  awful  clap  of  thunder  was  the  last. 
Quickly  the  tempest  fled,  the  light  streamed  down 
Upon  me,  till  through  wisps  of  thinning  cloud 
18 


GANYMEDE 

The  great  sun  glowed,  and  I  looked  out  at  him. 
Now  from  his  bronze-gilt  wings  the  eagle  shook 
Bright  pearly  drops  that  sparkled  rainbow  hues, 
While  I  tossed  back  my  dripping  locks  to  bathe 
My  face  in  light  I  had  not  hoped  to  see. 
Over  my  shoulder  flew  the  last  torn  shred 
Of  cloud,  and  all  the  sky  and  air  was  clear. 
Below  were  Thracian  herdsmen  driving  home 
Their  pygmy  creeping   flocks  through  freshened 

fields 

Towards  cottages  whence  curling  smoke  arose. 
Bare  hills  stood  gold-crowned  in  the  mellow  light,. 
Until  upon  a  far-off  rim  of  black 
The  red,  slow  sun  melted  away  and  sank. 
Stillness  came  o'er  me  then  with  such  relief 
That,  clasping  tense  arms  round  the  eagle's  neck,. 
I  sank  my  head  and  let  my  senses  swim 
Oblivious. 

I  wakened  in  this  wide  Olympus  hall, 
Where  as  my  nightly  task  I  bear  the  bowl 
Of  nectar  to  the  gods,  their  kingly  slave. 
But  when  the  glitter  of  the  feast  grows  pale 

19 


GANYMEDE 

And  the  great  guests  have  parted  one  by  one, 
I  come  and  stand  here  on  the  mountain's  brink 
And  gize  away  toward  my  own  native  shore, 
Wondering  who  tends  my  sheep  on  Ida's  slope 
Now  I  am  gone,  and  if  they  miss  me  there. 


2C 


The  Wanderings  of  Psyche 

"  Oh  latest-born  and  loveliest  vision  far 
Of  all  Olympus'  faded  hierarchy  !  " 

KEATS 

To  R.  C. 

I 
PSYCHE 

FAR  in  the  blue  perspective  of  lost  years 
When  Greece  was  young  and  the  immortal  gods 
Still  walked  with  men,  there  lived  a  mighty  king,. 
The  father  of  three  daughters.     Two  were  fair, 
As  human  fairness  goes,  but  ah  !  the  third 
Seemed  not  of  earth,  but  like  a  sylph  composed 
All  of  the  nobler  elements ;  some  flower, 
Pure  as  the  air  and  golden  as  the  sun, 
To  catch  the  joy  of  springtide  in  its  cup. 
She  moved  as  lightly  as  a  summer  cloud 
That  floats  on  high  in  white  tranquility. 
21 


THE  WANDERINGS  OF   PSYCHE 

Her  name  was  Psyche,  and  she  scarce  had  reached 
Her  maiden  blossom-time  when  all  the  shrines 
Of  Venus  were  neglected,  for  the  folk 
Thronged  to  the  palace  for  a  glimpse  of  her, 
Saying,  "  This  goddess  we  are  bid  to  serve, 
We  have  not  seen  nor  yet  are  like  to  see. 
'Tis  better  we  should  worship  what  we  know." 
From  cold,  deserted  shrines  the  priests  sent  up 
Their  prayers  to  slighted  Venus,  till  she  frowned, 
And  summoning  her  purple-winged  son, 
She  thus  addressed  him,  "  See'st  thou,  heedless  boy, 
How  thy  once  honoured  mother  now  is  scorned 
All  for  a  mortal  girl  ?     Thou  carest  not. 
Nay,  if  thou  dost,  revenge  her.     In  my  court, 
As  well  thou  knowest,  two  bright  fountains  play 
Of  sorrow  one  to  lovers,  one  of  joy. 
Fill  thou  these  flasks,  fly  to  the  maid,  make  sure 
That  she  no  more  shall  prank  her  insolence 
In  colours  won  from  me."     Cupid  obeyed. 
Entering  the  court,  he  watched  the  silver  founts 
Spout  forth    their    glittering,  fateful    drops    that 

plashed 
Into  one  marble  basin  for  a  type 

22 


THE   WANDERINGS   OF   PSYCHE 

Of  mingled  joy  and  bitterness  in  love — 
Then  filled  his  bubbling  flasks  and  flew  away. 

Swiftly  did  Cupid  wing  the  radiant  air, 
Until  as  Phoebus'  chariot  neared  the  sea, 
A  light  wind  bore  her  to  the  rose-wreathed  bower 
Where  Psyche  slept.     The  westering  sunlight  stole 
On  tip-toe  in  to  touch  her  parted  lips, 
And  dwell  in  breathless  rapture  with  a  soft 
Caress  upon  the  tangled  skein  of  gold 
That  crowned  her  queenly  brow.  Then  Cupid  came 
As  noiseless  as  the  sunlight  and  as  rapt. 
Revenge,  unfed  by  anger,  smouldered  low ; 
And  he  who  came  to  punish,  stayed  to  gaze. 
A  shadow  of  her  future  passing  o'er 
Psyche's  unconscious  eyes  half  frighted  off 
The  slumber  weighing  softly  on  the  lids. 
She  stirred  a  blue-veined  hand,  while  Cupid  gazed 
Tremorous  with  hope  and  fear, — but  she  awoke  not. 
Her  cheek,  part  pillowed  on  her  bended  arm, 
Was  smooth  as  alabaster  and  as  cool. 
The  slight  warm-tinted  throat  lay  bare,  her  robe 
Rose  lightly  with  her  breath  and  lightly  fell. 
Long  Cupid  looked  and  sighed  unconsciously ; 
23 


THE  WANDERINGS  OF   PSYCHE 

But  love  is  half  caprice.     Just  then  his  eyes, 

Sinking  bedazzled,  fell  upon  the  flask 

Of  his   stored  vengeance.    This,   then,  was  the 

beauty 

That  shamed  his  mother.     Ere  a  second  thought 
He  poured  the  baneful  stream  on  Psyche's  lips. 

With  stifling  sobs  she  struggled  from  her  sleep, 
Her  violet  eyes  o'erbrimmed  with  trembling  tears. 
He,  all  amazement  at  the  sudden  change 
Wrought  by  his  deed,  let  slip  the  barbed  dart 
He  just  had  drawn  to  fix  a  restless  love 
In  Psyche's  bosom;  and  the  treacherous  point, 
Turning  against  the  archer,  smote  him  deep 
How  deep  he  knew  not  then,  but  full  of  pity 
And  soft  remorse,  he  took  the  flask  of  joy 
And  bathed  the  maiden's  face  with  balmy  drops. 
Then,  in  sweet  terror  of  he  knew  not  what, 
He  fled   her  glance  which  pierced   him  through 
unseen. 


THE   WANDERINGS  OF   PSYCHE 

II 
PSYCHE'S    MARRIAGE 

As  fluttering  petals  from  the  apple-bough 
Detached  by  listless  summer's  languid  hand, 
So  Psyche's  girlhood  pleasures  at  the  touch 
Of  feverish  longing,  vague  and  undefined, 
Fell  off  and  floated  from  her.     Now  no  more 
She  mingled  with  her  maidens  in  the  dance 
Where  once  her  slender  form  swayed  gracefulest. 
She  fled  the  ball-play  and  the  festal  songs 
To  muse  in  solitude.     Her  elder  sisters 
Were  wooed  and  wedded  both ;  but  Psyche  still, 
Worshipped  by  all  but  never  loved  by  one, 
Charmed  with  her  lute  the  silence  of  her  bower. 
At  length  the  good  king,  anxious  for  his  last 
And  best-beloved,  sent  to  Delphi's  shrine 
Wherein  Apollo's  voice  oracular 
Darkly  foretells  the  doubtful  fate  of  men. 
Thus  spoke  the  Pythoness,  "  On  such  a  day 
Prepare  the  feast,  for  Psyche  then  must  wed 

25 


THE   WANDERINGS  OF   PSYCHE 

That  creature  dreaded  most  by  all  the  gods  ; 
Before  whose  might  grim  Pluto's  self  has  bowed, 
And  wrathful  Neptune,  shaker  of  the  earth, — 
Nay,  even  Jove  admits  his  sovereignty. 
Perform  the  sacred  rites  and  send  her  forth 
To  meet  her  husband  on  Mount  Eremos." 
With  deepest  grief  the  old  king  read  the  scroll 
He  could  not  but  obey ;  and  at  the  time 
Appointed,  all  the  festal  rites  fulfilled, 
Her  handmaids   led   their    white-veiled    mistress 

forth 
With  mournful  marriage  hymn.     No  flowers  were 

strewn, 

No  torches  burned,  but  on  the  fatal  mount 
The  pale  bride,  cowering  like  a  frightened  dove 
Beneath  the  falcon  menace  of  her  fate, 
Raised  up  her  tear-sad  face  to  kiss  her  sire, 
While  he,  embracing  her  in  silence,  turned 
Away  his  eyes  from  the  ill-omened  sight. 
The  long  procession  solemnly  withdrew, 
And  Psyche  sank  down  prostrate  to  the  ground. 

The  sunset  sent  no  ray  of  hope  to  her, 
The  wan  stars  looked  down  coldly  on  her  grief, 
26 


THE   WANDERINGS   OF   PSYCHE 

Till  at  the  last,  outwearied  with  suspense, 
She  raised  her  body  from  the  cruel  earth 
And  prayed  for  pity  to  the  western  breeze  ! 

4<  O  Zephyr,  gray-winged  Zephyr,  wind  of  even, 
That  bearest  dew  to  all  the  drooping  flowers, 
And  quiet  to  the  birds  and  folded  flocks, 
That  waftest  sleep  across  the  weary  eyes 
Of  men  and  lullest  every  care  to  rest, — 
Have  mercy,  too,  on  me  and  comfort  me. 
Stoop  down  and  bear  me  from  this  hateful  spot, 
Although  thou  dash  me  on  the  rocks  below." 

And  Zephyr,  hearing,  gently  took  her  up, 
Soothing  her  anguish  with  his  tender  touch, 
And   bore   her  from   the   mount,   she  knew  not 
where. 


THE   WANDERINGS   OF   PSYCHE 
III 

THE  BRIDEGROOM 

With  the  first  saffron  glow,  ere  yet  the  dawn 
Or  consciousness  burst  flooding  on  her  mind, 
While  dreams  of  girlish  days  in  flowery  fields 
Still  drifted  through  her  slumber,  Psyche  thought 
To  wake  and  find  herself  as  heretofore 
Safe  in  her  little  bed  whence  oft  the  sun, 
Her  playfellow,  had  roused  her,  peeping  in 
Beneath  her  eyelashes  as  if  to  say, 
"  Come,  little  sister.    See  !  I  wait  for  you." 
But  no,  the  room  wherein  she  found  herself 
Was  large  and  dim,  with  gold-wrought  arras  hung,, 
The   wood-work   richly  carved,  the   whole    more 

grand 

Than  any  chamber  of  her  father's  house. 
Half  awed,  half  frightened  by  such  stateliness, 
She  rose,  and  putting  on  her  wedding  robes, 
Fled  out  into  the  daylight.     There  the  sun 
Greeted  her  gladly  as  of  old  and  made 
28 


THE   WANDERINGS   OF    PSYCHE 

Familiar  even  the  strange  walks  and  groves 
'Mid  which  she  found  herself.     Above  her  arched 
Great  fountain-strays  of  palm  that  seemed  to  bow 
Like  giant  servitors  along  her  path. 
Beyond,  an  ordered  grove  of  orange  trees, 
Their  dark  green  branches  hung  with  golden  fruit, 
WHS  spread.      And  there  were   meadows  flecked 

with  flowers ; 

The  pink-veined  white  of  slender  asphodels, 
Languid  Narcissi  by  the  waterside, 
And  wind-flowers,  crimson  dots  against  the  grass. 
Nor  was  the  garden  silent.     From  the  trees, — 
Where  in  the  dimness  flitted  gorgeous  birds, 
Blue,  red  and  orange  as  from  tropic  climes, — 
A  stream  of  intermittent  melody 
Poured   rippling   down,   each   bird   with  rill-like 

notes 

Swelling  the  flood  of  song,  while  from  the  fields 
The  tremulous  chirping  of  the  cicada 
Shrilled  like  the  audible  quivering  of  the  heat. 
A  sandy  glade  o'ergrown  with  lowly  thyme 
Was  vocal  witn  the  grumbling  of  the  bees. 
The  livelong  day  did  Psyche  wander  there, 


THE   WANDERINGS   OF   PSYCHE 

Tasting  the  fruit  or  listening  to  the  birds, 

Or  resting  in  the  shadow  of  the  palms 

To  quaff  the  fragrant  air  deliciously, 

Forgetful  of  her  grief ;   until  at  last, 

Wearied  and  lonely,  as  the  dusk  drew  down 

Across  the  shining  sky,  she  turned  about 

And  sought  the  palace.     In  the  festal  hall 

A  hundred  torches  burned  and  in  the  midst 

Was    spread    a    sumptuous   banquet,    but — most 

strange ! — 

No  human  face  had  Psyche  yet  beheld. 
Her  heart  was  timid,  but  in  all  these  scenes 
Of  varied  loveliness  a  guardian  hand 
Seemed   still  to   guide  and    soothe    her  lightest 

fears. 

Reclining  at  the  feast,  she  heard  from  far 
Sweet  voices  mingling  with  the  dove-toned  lyre. 
Nearer  the  music  drew  till  she  could  hear 
The  words  by  those  aerial  minstrels  sung, 
Of  ancient  kings,  of  love  and  warlike  deeds. 
Touched  by  the  plaintive  sorrow  of  the  songs, 
Psyche  lay  wondering  till  night  closed  down 
And  it  was  time  to  seek  her  bridal  bed. 
30 


THE  WANDERINGS  OF  PSYCHE 

Through    the    low    casement    full-orbed   Dian 

glowed ; 

To  her  the  maiden  prayed, "  O  Virgin  pure, 
Sailing  serenely  on  through  straits  of  cloud, 
Hear  and  protect  thy  helpless  votaress 
From  all  the  fears  of  darkness  and  of  doubt. 
Beam  from  thy  sovereign  height  ethereal 
And  shed  a  benediction  on  my  couch. 
Ah,  guard  me." — Here  a  floating  shadow  veiled 
The  casement's  light,  faint  rustling  stirred  the  air. 
A  scent  more  sweet  than  winds  o'er  southern  seas 
Was  wafted  in.     All  trembling  Psyche  stood 
With  lips  apart,  the  quick  breath  quivering  through, 
Half  faint  with  terror,  yet  not  all  afraid. 
The  form  bent  down,  two  warm,  soft  arms  stretched 

out 

And  took  her  gently ;  then  a  tender  mouth 
Was  pressed  to  hers,  she  felt  the  dim  star-shine 
Of  two  great  eyes,  lovingly  luminous. 
Her  lord  had  come  to  claim  her  for  his  wife. 


THE  WANDERINGS   OF   PSYCHE 

IV 
CUPID 

Psyche  awoke  to  find  that  it  was  day, 

And  all  her  formless  cloudy  memories 

Were  as  a  dream  of  folding  arms  and  kisses 

That  melted  in  the  light ;  but  yet  her  heart 

Grew  passionate  in  denial,  for  she  knew 

By  all  the  wisdom  of  her  new-born  self 

The  wondrous  dream  was  true.     So  passed  the 

hours 

In  hope  and  hushed  expectancy  of  night. 
Again  her  unseen  husband  came  to  her, 
And  Psyche  sank  into  his  yielding  arms. 
So  followed  countless  days  and  countless  nights. 

Ah,  restless  race  of  mortals,  ever  prone 
To  seek  the  cause  of  happiness  and  net 
To  thank  the  gods  for  happiness  itself ! 
Who  then,  of  womankind  had  been  more  blest 
Than  Psyche  had  she  trusted  in  her  fate  ? 
32 


THE   WANDERINGS   OF   PSYCHE 

A  feverish,  inquisitive  discontent 

Impelled  her  to  transgress  her  lord's  command 

And  seek  to  see  his  face.     That  very  night 

Gravely  and  tenderly  he  spoke  to  her  : 

'*  Psyche,  my  sweetest,  art  thou  not  at  peace  ? 

Is  not  my  love  enough  for  thee,  do  not 

Obedient  hands  fulfil  they  every  wish  ? 

Why  this  distrust  ?  "     And  Psyche  was  ashamed. 

Then  he  continued,  "  Know,  my  gentle  bride, 

Thou  may'st  not  look  upon  my  face  as  yet. 

See  thou  attempt  it  not,  else  ruin  dire 

Will  straightway  fall  on  us  and  blight  our  love. 

But  tell  me,  hast  though  any  other  wish  ? 

Tis  granted  with  the  asking."     She  replied 

And  said,  "  I  pray  thee  let  my  sisters  come 

And  visit  me.     'Tis  lonely  all  day  long 

While  tfcou  are  absent." 

"  This  I  feared,"  he  sighed, 

"  And  would  I  might  dissuade  thee  from  thy  will." 
But  Psyche's  heart  was  stubborn  and  she  said, 
"  I  wish  it,"  till  he  answered,  "  Be  it  so." 

On  the  next  day  her  sisters  came  to  her. 
They  feigned  to  marvel  much,  but  envy  stirred 
33 


THE   WANDERINGS   OF    PSYCHE 

Their  shallow  hearts  till  the  black  hate  rose  up. 
Swift  is  the  sympathy  of  evil  minds, 
As  from  an  ugly  cloud  the  lightning-flash 
Darts  to  the  next.     The  snare  was  quickly  laid. 
41  Come  hither  Psyche,  child,  and  tell  us  of 
The  princely  bridegroom."    Guileless,  she  replied, 
"  I  never  see  him,  for  he  comes  at  night, 
And  ere  the  eager  ringers  of  the  dawn 
Uncurtain  day,  he  kisses  me  farewell." 
"  What,"  cried  the  sister,  "  can  it  really  be 
That  you  have  never  seen  him  ?     Fine,  forsooth ! 
A  pretty  marriage  !     Know  you  not  the  doom 
That  you  should  wed  some  monster  feared  by  all 
The  gods  ?     And  now  be  sure  he  fattens  you 
To  make  the  better  feast,  or  keeps  you  slave 
To  his  vile  lust.     But  we'll  frustrate  him  yet. 
Prepare  a  lamp  to-night  to  place  beneath 
Your  pillow  ere  he  comes,  then  whet  a  knife 
To  the  keenest.     Nerve  your  spirit  for  the  deed, 
And  when  he  sleeps,  steal  slyly  from  his  arms, 
Light  your  lamp,   strike,   sever    your   loathsome 

bonds." 

They  parted,  but  the  words  in  Psyche's  heart 
34 


THE   WANDERINGS   OF    PSYCHE 

Rankled  and  poisoned  it  with  dire  mistrust. 
Who  was  her  lord,  and  why  this  secrecy 
With  her  he  feigned  to  love  ?     Too  soon  forgot 
The  gentle  words  of  warning  tenderness. 
Unceasing  rang  the  jangling  oracle: 
"  That  creature  dreaded  most  by  all  the  gods." 
She  trimmed  her  lamp  and  made  the  dagger  keen. 
That  night  he  did  not  speak  to  her  or  kiss  her 
As  he  was  wont  to  do,  but  turned  away 
And  after  a  little  slept.     She  listened  close 
To  hear  his  breath  soft-drawn  and  regular. 
Almost  she  had  relented  but— almost. 
Hardened  by  her  bad  purpose,  she  drew  forth 
The  lamp  and  knife,  stifling  her  struggling  gasps. 
Quickly  she  struck  the  flint  and  stood  prepared 
To  kill. 

At  first  the  sudden  flame  flared  up, 
Dazzling  her  deadly  purpose  ;  then  she  saw,— 
Head  upon  arm  the  fairest  of  the  gods 
And  youngest.     Ivory  was  that  arm,  the  cheek 
It  pillowed  rosy  as  a  sunset  cloud. 
Loose  o'er  the  brow  ambrosial  ringlets  strayed, 
Fluttering  with  the  breeze  how  trustfully ! 

35 


THE   WANDERINGS   OF   PSYCHE 

Behind  his  head  the  folded  wings  shone  white 
As  those  of  Venus'  doves.    While  Psyche  leaned, 
The  sleeper  stirred,  and  she  in  shrinking  back 
Let  fall  a  burning  drop  of  oil  upon 
His  smooth,  bare  shoulder. 

Waking  in  pain,  he  sent  one  sorrowing  look 
To  Psyche's  soul,  then  spread  his  gleaming  wings 
And  bird-like  slipped  from  her  detaining  arms. 
Reeling  to  the  window,  helpless,  desperate, 
She  saw  him  rise  and  vanish  in  the  night. 


THE   WANDERINGS   OF   PSYCHE 


THE   QUEST 

Dull  throbbed  the  pain  in  Psyche's  breast.     Before 
Her  eyes  unclosed,  while  yet  her  mind  was  dark, 
She  felt  the  leaden  weight  of  dull  despair. 
Gone  was  the  palace,  vanished  was  the  grove 
And  she  was  lying  prostrate  in  the  dust, 
Alone  once  more  upon  the  lonely  mount. 
Yet,  like  the  bright-winged  hope  Pandora  found 
Within  the  box  whence  all  her  troubles  came, 
This  secret  joy  whispered  in  Psyche's  breast : 
Her  husband  was  a  god  and  he  had  loved  her. 
Loved  her, — at  last  she  understood,  she  drank 
The  bitter  drops  of  Venus'  bitter  fountain. 
Then  purpose,  like  a  god,  inspired  each  nerve 
With  sudden  strength.     She  raised  herself,  then 

shook 

Her  dusty  robe  and  smoothed  it  decently, 
For  she  was  now  resolved  to  seek  the  shrine 
Of  Venus,  there  to  kneel  and  own  her  fault, 
Not  knowing  Venus  was  her  enemy. 

37 


THE  WANDERINGS  OF   PSYCHE 

That  day  she  started  forth  upon  her  quest 
O'er  the  rough  hills  and  sunny  dales  of  Greece. 
At  dawn  the  dew-drenched  hunter  saw  her  pass, 
At  sultry  noon  she  paused  to  quench  her  thirst 
Among  the  reapers  sprawled  amid  the  stubble, 
And  timidly  at  even  she  would  seek 
A  friendly  shelter  from  the  chill  of  night, 
At  day-break  forth  again  upon  the  quest. 
All  helped,  all  pitied  in  that  kindly  age 
Of  peasant  hospitality,  but  no  one 
Could  ease  her  of  her  load  of  self-reproach. 
Along  the  yellow  highway  deep  with  dust 
Her  journey  lay,  then  through  the  bustling  streets 
Of  market  towns  she  went  as  one  apart, 
Or,  passing  o'er  a  bridge  of  rough-hewn  stone, 
She  paused  to  watch  the  waters  gallop  by  ; 
Breasted  a  steep  ascent  and  from  the  crest 
Beheld  the  valley  with  her  empty  eyes. 
At  length  within  a  dell  at  eventide 
She  found  the  long-sought  shrine,  the  altar  cold 
And  all  the  pillars  draped  with  dreary  shadows. 
She  crouched  before  the  ashes,  and  her  prayer 
Rose  gallant  through  the  gloom,  till  suddenly 
38 


THE   WANDERINGS   OF   PSYCHE 

In  awful,  deep-flushed  anger  Venus  stood 
Before  her  suppliant  and  with  scornful  words 
Addressed  her,  "  So,  proud  girl,  you  come  at  last 
For  tidings  of  your  husband,  sadly  scorched 
By  his  dear  wife's  caresses.     In  good  time ! 
Here's  work  enough  for  idle  housewife's  hands/' 
With  that  she  led  her  to  a  granary 
Where  heaps  of  grain  lay  mixed  ;  wheat,  millet, 

rye, 

Barley  and  spelt,  a  thousand  thousand  seeds. 
"  Sort  out  these  grains,  each  several  kind  apart, 
And  have  your  task  performed  at  my  return." 
So  she  was  gone,  but  Psyche  sank  inert 
And  did  not  move  a  finger  to  the  task. 
While  thus  she  lay,  past  hope,  a  tiny  voice 
Chirped  at  her  very  ear,  "  Sleep,  sleep  and  fear 

not. 

I  and  my  brothers  here  will  do  the  task." 
She  looked  and  saw  a  countless  host  of  ants 
Running  and  tugging  at  the  heaps  of  grain, 
And  sorting  out  each  kind  in  even  piles. 
Then  Psyche,  having  thanked  the  unknown  power 
That  aided  her,  fell  fast  asleep.    Next  morn, 

39 


THE   WANDERINGS   OF   PSYCHE 

When  Venus  came  and  found  the  labour  done, 
She  scowled  and  all  her  lovely  face  grew  dark. 
"  This  is  no  thrift  of  yours,  oh  graceless  one. 
But  come !  another  task.     You  see  yon  field 
Where  gold-fleeced  rams  are  feeding.     Hasten 

forth 

And  gather  of  the  wool  from  every  fleece." 
Unwitting  of  the  danger,  Psyche  went 
Straight  toward  the  field,  but  as  she  passed  a  stream 
She  heard  how  in  the  rustling  water-reeds 
A  river  god  gave  warning  :     "  Stay,  rash  girl, 
Nor  court  a  certain  death.     At  prime  of  day 
The  rams  wax  fell,  but  with  the  noon-tide  heat 
Their  rage   abates.      Thou    then    mayst  venture 

forth 

And  gather  from  the  thorns  their  shining  fleece." 
The  frightened  girl  obeyed,  and  when  the  sun 
Stood  highest,  went  again  and  filled  her  arms 
With  crisp  and  glittering  wool.     That  night  secure 
She  rested,  and  at  dawn  the  goddess  came. 
"  The  task  is  done  though  by  no  wit  of  yours, 
And  now  this  last  command  I  lay  upon  you. 
Descend  to  Pluto's  realm,  salute  from  me 
40 


THE   WANDERINGS   OF   PSYCHE 

Proserpina  and  ask  of  her  a  box 
Filled  with  her  magic  beauty,  for  my  own 
Is  growing  pale  with  watching  o'er  my  son 
Who  even  now  lies  sick.     Depart  at  once." 
With  sinking  heart  and  failing  feet  the  girl 
Turned  from  her  angry  mistress,  knowing  not 
Which  way  her  steps  might  lead,  and  only  sure 
That  now  at  last  all  hope  was  gone.     For  how 
Living  could  she  approach  the  throne  of  Dis  ; 
Or  dying,  how  return  to  upper  air  ? 
"  It  is  my  death,  my  death  that  Venus  wishes," 
She  wailed,  and  stumbling  up  a  rocky  path, 
Paused  breathless  on  the  black  cliff's  jutting  brink 
Where,  leaning  o'er  the  sheer  precipitance, 
She  wildly  prayed,  "  O  everlasting  Jove, 
By  him  thou  fearest,  by  the  nameless  god 
Whose  wings  are  beauty  and  whose  lips  are  fire, 
In  whom  is  all  my  joy  and  all  my  woe, — 
Watch  over  me  and  save  me  from  my  fate." 
And  as  she  would  have  leaped,  a  burst  of  thunder 
Appalled  her,  and  from  out  the  cloudless  blue 
A  tawny  eagle  swept  and  flew  to  her. 
"  O  ever-doubting,  headlong-minded  one, 

41 


THE  WANDERINGS  OF  PSYCHE 

Attend  Jove's  answer.     Know  in  yonder  vale 

A  gloomy  cavern  yawns.     Go  boldly  in. 

'Twill  lead  you  even  to  the  river  Styx 

Where  sallow  Charon  plies  from  shore  to  shore 

Across  the  loathsome  stream.     Say  thou  to  him, 

*  I  bid  thee  bear  me  over  in  his  name 

Whom  Pluto  fears.'     Beyond  him  thou  shalt  meet 

With  Cerberus.     His  mouths  thou  must  appease 

With  these  six  cakes,  three  going  three  returning. 

Enter  the  palace,  speak  to  Proserpine 

As  Venus  bade,  receive  the  box  of  beauty 

And  as  thou  cam'st,  return.    But  on  thy  way 

Speak  not  unto  the  shades  nor  answer  them, 

Help  none  to  enter  into  Charon's  boat, 

Touch  thou  no  food  and  see  thou  open  not 

The  box  which  Proserpine  will  give  to  thee." 


THE   WANDERINGS   OF   PSYCHE 

VI 
THE    FINAL    TASK 

Nerved  to  fearful  journey,  Psyche  stepped 
From  out  the  world  of  sunlight  and  of  air 
Into  the  land  of  shadow,  following  down 
The  path  by  which  no  living  thing  returns, 
Which  darkened  as  she  went  until  it  seemed 
To  lead  her  straight  into  the  heart  of  night. 
From  that  time  forth  the  terrors  of  the  way 
Were   as   a   dream    that    seethes    with   nameless 

shapes. 

The  spirits  of  the  dead  trooped  by,  pale  blurs 
That  stared  from  out  the  windows  of  the  dark ; 
Gigantic  beasts  and  titans  loomed  above, 
More  awful  than  the  blackness.     By  the  shore 
Of    Styx    a    gibbering    concourse     swayed     and 

thronged 

Round  Charon's  boat,  but  Psyche,  resolute, 
Passed  on  and  pushed  the  yielding  shades  aside 
As  one  who  wades  in  haste  through  waving  wheat. 

43 


THE   WANDERINGS   OF    PSYCHE 

She  spoke  the  words,  and  Charon,  beating  back 
The  rest,  steered  out  into  the  stream.    When  lo  ! 
From  out  the  pitchy  tide  a  head  and  arm 
Was  lifted  and  a  piteous  voice  implored 
A  rescuing  hand,  but  Psyche  listened  not. 
Along  the  farther  bank  the  ghosts  were  ranged 
Like  flocks  of  seamews,  gray  against  the  black 
Of  some  long  basalt  crag  that  lifts  its  crest 
Above  the  fleecy  breakers.     And  as  gulls 
Swoop  down  when  sailors  bear  the  shining  fish 
To  shore,  so  all  the  spirits  flitted  down 
To  Psyche,  asking  her  of  life  on  earth, 
Of  husband,  wife  or  brother,  but  she  went 
In   silence  through  their   midst.     At  length   she 

came 

Where  Cerberus  lay  stretched,  his  three  red  tongues 
Lolling  like  flames.     Then  Psyche  threw  her  cakes, 
And  straight  the  monster  bent  his  triple  head, 
Devoured  the  bait  and  closed  his  savage  eyes. 
Before  the  iron  gates  of  Pluto's  house 
She  first  stayed  step  and  knocked,  the  doors  rolled 

back, 
And  Psyche  saw  the  vasty  hall  of  Dis 

44 


THE   WANDERINGS   OF   PSYCHE 

Unfold.     But  love  that  never  yet  had  failed  her 
Still  urged  her  on  through  all  the  murky  gods 
Straight  to  the  throne  of  Proserpine.    The  goddess, 
Her  fair  head  weighted  with  an  iron  crown, 
Stooped  down  and  kissed  the  girl,  so  like  herself 
When  mid  the  flowers  she  played  in  Enna's  fields. 
Psyche  made  known  her  wish  and  Proserpine 
Departed  to  fulfil  it.     Now  the  girl 
Had  leisure  to  behold  the  mighty  hall, 
A  boundless  dusk  set  off  with  pinnacles 
Of  glowing  gems  set  deep  in  crusted  gold. 
On  lesser  thrones  were  kings,  but  raised  aloft 
In  gloom-enshrouded  grandeur,  with  a  face 
Noble  yet  pale  as  death  against  the  dark 
Of  his  long  hair,  grim  Pluto  sat.     Beneath 
Men  bustled  to  and  fro,  and  torches  flared ; 
But  not  a  muscle  moved  in  that  stern  cheek. 
While  Psyche  stood  in  awe,  a  servant  touched 
Her  arm  and  pointed  to  a  sumptuous  feast : 
The  costliest  meats,  cool  fruit  more  tempting  ripe 
Than  ever  mocked  the  lips  of  Tantalus ; 
Yet  Psyche  put  it  by.    At  length  the  box 
Was  brought,  and  she  departed  as  she  came. 

45 


THE   WANDERINGS   OF   PSYCHE 

Through  all  the  terrors  of  the  homeward  way 

Psyche  returned,  unnoticing,  her  heart 

Filled   full   with  warm   delight    that    spread   and 

pulsed 

Like  joyous  wine.     Past  dog  and  stream  and  shades 
She  won,  till  dimly  through  the  stifling  dark 
The  faint  light  glimmered.     Then,  as  by  the  coast 
Of  Tyre  the  unbreathing  diver  with  his  load 
Of  shells  whose  tint  shall  dye  the  robe  of  kings, 
Returning  from  the  depths,  beholds  once  more 
With  straining  eye  the  emerald  glow  of  day 
Above  him,  so  did  Psyche's  heart  with  glad 
Relief  o'erflow,  and  running  toward  the  gleam, 
She  burst  into  the  godlike,  golden  air 
As  careless  as  a  child  runs  forth  to  play. 

The  task  was  finished,  what  remained  to  do 
But  bear  to  Venus'  shrine  the  precious  box  ? 
The  box !     Despite  the  deeper  beauty  lent 
By  love  and  suffering  to  her  sylph-like  face, 
Psyche  was  still  in  heart  the  girl  who  erst, 
Fain  of  her  father's  praise,  would  stand  before 
The  mirror,  binding  up  the  wealth  of  hair 
That  flooded  through  her  fingers  ;  so  that  now, — 

46 


THE   WANDERINGS   OF   PSYCHE 

Her  sorrows  ended, — gay  and  light  of  mood, 
Her  little  vanities  smiled  out.     She  only  thought 
How  fairest  she  might  greet  the  eyes  of  him 
She  worshipped.     Ah  the  box,  the  fatal  box  ! 
Why  could  not  Venus  spare  a  tinge  of  all 
That  beauty  brought  so  faithfully  !     She  raised 
The  cover — and  a  hateful,  Stygean  sleep 
Slunk  out  and  fastened  on  her  reptile-like, 
Stifling  her  laughter  with  his  sluggish  breath, 
And  like  a  dead  thing  Psyche  fell  and  lay. 

Long  hours  she  lay,  and  might  have  lain   till 

death ; 

But  Cupid,  prisoned  in  his  mother's  house 
Was  troubled  with  forebodings  till  by  chance, 
Seeking  escape,  he  found  the  tiniest  clink 
Through  which  he  slipped,  and  speeding  to  the 

earth, 

Sought  out  his  fainting  mistress.     Brushing  off 
The  ugly  sleep,  he  clasped  his  wakened  bride 
Once  more,  and  flying  smoothly  through  the  air, 
Bore  her  to  high  Olympus.     There  before 
The  throne  of  Jove  the  lover  who  was  love 
Pleaded  till  Jove,  raising  his  dread  right  hand, 
47 


THE   WANDERINGS   OF    PSYCHE 

Bade  bring  the  wine  of  immortality. 
So  Hebe  brought  the  cup  and  Psyche  drank. 
Then  while  the  lovers  in  each  other's  eyes 
Found  full  delight,  the  voice  of  Jove  proclaimed  : 
"  So  dwell  ye  evermore,  and  from  your  love 
Shall  Pleasure's  self  be  born,  your  eldest  child." 


Philemon  and  Baucis 

When  the  warm  sunbeams  slanted  from  the  west, 

And  o'er  the  barren  peaks  and  hillsides  lay 

A  glowing  robe  of  purple,  doubly  rich 

With  shadow  and  with  mist, — then  round  the  well 

The  village  grandsires  gathered,  where  at  ease 

They  chose  their  favourite  benches  in  the  shade 

Of  the  great  piebald  plane-trees  with  their  leaves 

Wagging  in  slow  content,  while  near  at  hand 

The  dusty  children  tired  of  their  play 

Clustered  around  to  listen.     To  the  well 

Some  patient  housewife  now    and   then    would 

trudge 

And  fill  her  pitcher  for  the  evening  meal ; 
Perhaps  indeed  a  maiden,  dusky,  tall, 
Bare-footed  and  bare-armed  with  splendid  neck 
49 


PHILEMON    AND    BAUCIS 

On  which  she  poised  the  jar.      Then  she  would 

lean, 
Take  down  and  watch  it  fill,  her  deep-drawn 

breath 

Scarce  quickening  in  its  steady  rise  and  fall 
That  swelled  her  trim-set  bodice,  when  she  raised 
The  ample  vessel  brimmed  with  gurgling  store. 
But  if  a  youth  wrapped  in  his  sheep-skin  cloak 
Should  come  too  early  from  the  fold,  her  hand, 
So  sure  just  now,  might  tremble,  and  her  breath 
Come  quick  and  struggling  when  he  took  the  jar 
And  would  have  saved,  her  labour.     Then  would 

smile 

An  old,  worn  patriarch  with  grizzled  head 
Yet  kindly  glance,  and  chuckle  forth,  "  Aye,  Aye  ! 
Ye'll  recollect  we  all  were  youngsters  once." 
Whereat  the  little  boys  would  squirm  and  turn 
Because  they  did  not  know,  and  one  would  beg, 
Caressing  with  his  arm  a  great  gnarled  knee 
And  looking  up  into  the  old  man's  face, 
"  The  story,  grandpa,  that  you  told  us  once 
Of  mighty  gods  that  came  and  rested  here 
At  the  small  cottage  down  beside  the  stream." 
So 


PHILEMON    AND    BAUCIS 

Now  would  the  group  be  still,  for  round  these 

days 

Of  shepherd  life  in  rou^h  Arcadia 
The  golden  classic  halo  lingered  yet. 
Bacchus  and  Ceres  still  were  worshipped  then, 
And  Pan,  too,  piping  in  his  woodland  haunts. 
So  all  was  quiet  save  a  baying  dog, 
Gathering  in  the  stragglers  to  the  fold, 
And  two  late-twittering  birds.     The  weary  sun 
Had  rolled  his  chariot  down  the  crystal  bridge 
Of  day,  till  the  last  fading  shafts  of  pink 
Played  on  the  snow  of  Kelmon's  glittering  crest. 

The  old  man  mused  a  space,  then  glanced  about 

him 

And  with  half  sigh  thus  took  up  the  tale : 
"  Know  then,  my  children,  'twas  on  such  an  eve 
As  this,  perhaps  a  hundred  years  ago, 
That  two  gray  figures  crossed  the  eastern  ridge 
From  which  the  roadway  leads  across  the  dell 
Up  to  the  village,  as  it  does  to-day. 
Ye  will  not  think  'twas  long  before  the  dogs 
Spied  and  were  after  them,  but  on  they  came, 


PHILEMON    AND    BAUCIS 

Not  noticing  or  caring  much  it  seemed. 

Two  men  they  were  in  meagre  peasant  dress, 

And  dusty  from  the  road.    The  foremost  was 

The  elder  and  the  taller ;  straight  he  strode 

With  flowing  hair  and  beard,  and  in  his  face 

(As  they  that  tell  it  say)  a  dignity 

And  look  as  of  a  king  from  a  far  land. 

He  gazed  not  on  the  pathway  or  the  dogs 

That  shrank  without  his  glance,  but  stared  ahead 

Full  as  an  eagle  at  the  sinking  sun. 

The  younger  man  walked   quick   with   shorter 

steps, 

Turning  at  whiles  upon  the  snarling  dogs 
With  a  light  staff,  but  when  he  struck,  the  pack 
Would  start  as  from  a  snake  and  one  would  limp, 
Howling  as  he  were  bitten  to  the  bone. 
Next  came  the  children  running  down  the  hill, 
A  rougher  crew  than  any  dogs.     They  dug 
Loose  stone  from  out  the  torrent  bed  to  fling 
At  the  poor  strangers,  thinking  no  doubt  because 
The  men  were  weaponless  and  scantly  clad 
That  they  would  make  fair  sport.      One  graceless 

scamp 

52 


PHILEMON    AND    BAUCIS 

(Mark  this,  Lycorides)  let  fly  at  them 
But  missed,  and  ere  a  second  stone  was  loosed, 
Who  should  dash  down  upon  the  startled  boys 
But  old  Philemon  ?     His  was  then  the  cottage 
Beside  the  stream,  where  from  the  vine-wreathed 

door 

The  good  man  had  beheld  the  shameful  sight 
Of  men  baited  like  wolves,  and  all  the  rites 
Of  sacred,  Zeus-taught  hospitality 
Abused.     Then  like  a  seasoned  log  of  oak, 
His  time-tried  heart  burst  out  into  a  blaze, 
And  spite  his  eighty  years,  he  caught  his  staff, 
Scattered  the  cowardly  boys  and  gave  his  hand, 
Still  trembling  with  his  passion,  to  the  first 
Of  the  two  pilgrims.      *  Pardon,  sir,'  he  cried, 
'  For  these   rough   curs   and   rougher  cubs  of 

men. 

We  live  too  much  like  beasts,  sir,  in  these  days ; 
We  eat  and  drink  and  quarrel  o'er  our  food, 
The  stronger  robs  the  weaker.     All's  forgot 
Now  of  those  times  when  gods  were  not  ashamed 
To  come  and  share  our  simple  joys  with  us. 
But  how  I  wander !    Come,  and  you,  sir,  too. 
53 


PHILEMON    AND    BAUCIS 

My  house  is  yours,  and  never  did  I  wish 

More  deeply  'twere  a  better  one.     But  come, 

Baucis  and  I  will  do  our  best  for  you/ 

The  other  took  Philemon's  hand  in  his 

With  grasp  as  steady  as  the  helmsman's  grip 

That  confident  through  calm  and  tempest  steers. 

Deep-voiced  and  mellow  came  his  measured  tones 

As  echoes  in  a  cave,  or  April  thunder 

That  bodes  no  lightning-stroke  but  rather  rain, 

Kindly,  refreshing  and  a  boon  to  man  : 

'  Good  sir,  we  make  us  bold  then  to  intrude 

One  night  upon  your  hospitality.' 

Philemon  led  them  up,  solicitous, 

To  where  e'en  now  the  supper  was  preparing, 

And  on  the  rough  board  table  Baucis  laid 

The  oaken  dishes.     '  See,  wife,  here  be  strangers 

Whom  Zeus  hath  sent  to  lodge  with  us.     Set  on 

The  two  bronze  dishes  brought  of  old  from  Troy, 

Bring  the  fresh   goat's-milk  cheese,   while   I  go 

down 

To  pick  a  clustering  bunch  of  purple  grapes 
That  ripens  by  the  southern  wall.     Make  haste ! 
No  doubt  our  guests  are  hungry.'      She  looked  up, 

54 


PHILEMON    AND    BAUCIS 

Espied  the  travellers  and  bent  her  head 

As  who  should  say,  '  Ye're  kindly  welcome,  both.' 

Then  off  she  bustled,  and  in  little  time 

The  board  was  spread  with  all  the  scanty  best 

The  worthy  pair  could  boast  of.     They  sat  down 

Around  the  table,  but  the  younger  guest 

First  laid  his  staff  aside.     Philemon  saw 

That   round   its    stem    were  coiled  two  serpents 

wrought 

With  exquisite  workmanship,  and  as  he  watched, 
They  seemed  to  him  to  move  along  the  staff, 
Gliding  and  slowly  coiling  in  and  out. 
He  rubbed  his  eyes, — the  light  was  growing  dim, — 
No  doubt  a  younger  pair  of  eyes  than  his 
Might  be  at  fault.     Meanwhile  the  meal  went  on 
With  many  an  honest,  blunt  apology 
For  the  rude  fare,  but  both  the  strangers  ate 
With  heartiness  that  made  their  thanks  ring  true. 
Especially  the  younger,  whose  lithe  form 
Was  moulded  all  of  grace,  would  stop  to  praise 
The  goodwife's  cheese,  and  ask  her  how  it  was 
She  pressed  and  made  it  set  without  a  flaw. 
Baucis  was  pleased  and  fluttered,  hardly  still 

55 


PHILEMON    AND    BAUCIS 

A  breathing  space  for  waiting  on  her  guests. 

Sure  there  was  something  strange  about  the  meal. 

The  very  barley-bread  seemed  white  and  fine, 

The  grapes  not  bitter  as  Philemon  feared, 

But  rich  and  luscious  as  with  nectar  juice. 

Strangest  of  all,  the  little  jug  of  milk 

Was  inexhaustible.     Draught  upon  draught 

The  old  man  poured,  but  when  the  young  guest 

cried, 

*  Another  cup,  pray,  of  your  milk.     Your  goats 
Crop  only  asphodel/  Philemon  reached 
And,  sure  the  jug  contained  not  ten  good  drops, 
Tilted  it  upside  down.     When  (can  he  trust 
His  eyes  ?)  the  warm  milk  overflowed  the  cup 
And  trickled  o'er  the  table.      '  Come,  good  host,' 
Said  the  young  stranger,  while  his  twinkling  eyes 
Brimmed  over  (like  his  cup)  with  merriment, 
'  You're  generous  to  a  fault.     See,  I  must  take 
The  pitcher  and  pour  out  the  precious  milk.' 
Forthwith  he  poured  and  filled  the  cups  for  all. 
Then  Baucis  and  Philemon  stared  and  stared 
And  blessed  themselves,  looking  the  while  askance 
At  their  two  visitors,  who  heeded  not 

56 


PHILEMON    AND    BAUCIS 

But  ate  and  drank  as  calm  as  common  men. 
At  length  the  elder,  who  had  used  few  words 
Thus  far,  looked  up  and,  gazing  toward  his 

host, — 

'  And  do  you  dwell  here  all  alone  ? '  he  asked, 
*  Ah,  sir,'  Philemon  said,  '  we  had  a  son, 
A  good  boy,  too.     He  went  to  the  great  wars  — 
No   doubt  you  will   have  heard.     Well,  many 

went, 

And  after  ten  years  some  of  them  came  back 
With  spoil  and  wondrous  stories  of  their  deeds. 
I  ne'er  knew  rightly  what  'twas  all  about, 
Except  that  my  boy  said  some  Troyan  lord 
Had  done  our  Spartan  king  great  wrong,  and 

he— 

My  boy  I  mean— said  every  Greek  must  go 
To  take  in  blood  swift  vengeance  for  the  deed. 
Brave   lads,   brave   lads ;    indeed   my  son   meant 

well. 

But  that  was  thirty  years  since.     Even  then 
I  was  well  on  in  years,  sir,  as  they  say ; 
And  Baucis  would  have  been  alone.     No  doubt 
Our  men  fought  bravely  and  the  Troyans,  too, 
57 


PHILEMON   AND   BAUCIS 

If  one  may  judge ;  but  why  they  fought  at  all 
Was  never  clear  to  me.     Well,  we  lived  on 
\nd  waited,  and  the  time  went  slowly  by. 
We  had  no  battles  here  except  with  wolves, 
And  no  one  harmed  his  neighbour.     Then, — 

where  was  I  ? — 

Ah  yes.     We  waited  till  the  rest  came  back. 
Pan  !  what  a  day  was  that — so  few,  so  few. 
They  said  our  boy  had  died  upon  the  field 
And  won  great  glory.     All  that  we  could  see 
Was  that  the  bed  we'd  strewn  ten  years  for  him 
Would  now  be  always  empty,  and  our  prayers 
That  day  and  night  had  gone  up  to  the  gods 
Need  now  be  made  for  him  no  more.     You  see 
I'd  toiled  and  sweated  odd  of  forty  year, 
Had  made  my  farm  and  saved  a  bit  beside ; 
And  then  I  looked  that  he  would  come  and  keep 

me, 

And  bring  his  wife  home,  too,  and  I  should  have 
A  grandson  at  my  knees  to  take  the  name 
And  live  contented  here  as  I  have  done. 
Ah  well,  there's  many  a  sorrow  in  the  world, 
But  all  is  for  the  best.     So  we  lived  on. 
58 


PHILEMON    AND    BAUCIS 

The  times  grew  harder  soon,  my  friends  were 

dead, 

The  younger  folk,  too,  were  not  always  kind ; 
But  thanks  to  my  good  wife,  we  still  keep  up 
And  shall  do  till  the  end.     And  when  it  comes, 
Be  it  to  both  at  once  ;  that's  all  my  prayer.' 
The  shades  had  deepened,  from  the  hillside  pines 
The  soft  air  breathed  in  balsam,  overhead 
The  early  stars  glowed  mildly.     None  could  see 
Within  the  dimness,  if  the  elder  guest 
Showed  any  grief  or  no.     'Tis  sure  he  leaned 
His  head  upon  his  wrist  and  seemed  in  thought. 
At  last  he  stirred  and  said,  '  My  friend  and  I 
Have  come  from  far.     Pray  show  us  to  our 

couch.' 

The  voice  was  sad,  perhaps  from  weariness. 
Philemon  brought  a  torch  and  showed  his  guests 
A  neat,  bare  room  with  pallet-beds  of  straw, 
Saying,  '  My  boy's  room, — so  we  always  call  it, 
And  keep  it  still  for  any  wanderer 
Whom  the  kind  gods  may  send  us.     'Tis  our  joy 
To  have  him  so  in   mind.     Good   night,   sirs, 

both.' 

59 


PHILEMON    AND    BAUCIS 

Next  day  Philemon  rose  before  the  dawn  ; 

His  son's  door  stood  ajar,  the  guests  were  gone. 

But  after  that  what'er  the  couple  did 

Would  prosper  wondrously,  till  soon  they  grew 

The  richest  people  in  the  place,  and  still 

Their  greatest  joy  was  hospitality. 

And  the  poor  milk-jug  those  strange  men  had 

touched, 

Howe'er  so  often  emptied  still  was  full. 
So  the  pair  lived  on  in  calm  content, 
Till  one  bright  autumn  morn  no  smoke  rose  up 
From  their  low  chimney.     Neighbours  came  to  see, 
Entered, — the  doors  were  never  fastened  then — 
And  found  them ;  the  old,  kindly  smile  relaxed 
Upon  Philemon's  lips,  while  Baucis'  eyes 
Had  lost  for  aye  their  gentle,  anxious  look. 
They  had  fared  forth  together  in  the  night 
To  claim  in  turn  from  those  immortal  guests 
The  sacred  rights  of  hospitality." 

The  story  ended,  each  small  listener 
Shifted  about,  as  one  who  from  a  dream 
Awaking,  half  remembers  what  he  dreamed ; 
60 


PHILEMON    AND    BAUCIS 

Till  one  more  bold  jumped  up  and  scampered 

off, 

The  others  at  his  heels.     Then  one  by  one, 
The  old  men  grumbling  out  their  half  content, 
Bearing  their  weight  upon  their  sticks,  rose  up 
And  hied  them  slowly  to  their  glowing  hearths ; 
Till  through  the  wagging  leafage  of  the  planes 
The  stars  blinked   down  and  the  young  harvest 

moon 
Rose  like  a  memory  o'er  the  silent  scene. 


61 


W.    H.    DARGAN,   LTD.,   PRINTERS,   CLERKENWILL,   B.C. 


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